It’s been about a week relearning the subeditor routine. Working, for me, requires a rhythm, a structure and a routine that is flexible while also being familiar.

There’s been a lot to get used to. Shifts, for instance. On morning shifts, I wake up at 6.45am and finish up work at 4pm. Afternoons mean 4pm to 12am manning the subsdesk.

The multitasking is a bit of a headache. Scanning the newswires and emails for things to put up, and in the morning it’s a mad rush to update all the sections. I admit the first half hour after waking up my mind is still hazy but it gets better as the day goes on.

Until I get to moderating the site’s comments. By the 20th comment, I usually feel like slashing my wrists. Anonymous commenters do not hesitate to unleash the vitriol. I just wish they would, oh, spell better.

So I’ve been learning things the hard way – silly mistakes, cluelessness as to the daily work routine, muddled communications. But the people I’ve been working with have been the patient, kind and professional sort. So I’ve nothing to complain about in that regard.

I hope I’ll get into the groove by the end of the month and become less of a liability. Setting small goals, making baby steps. By the end of the month, may this post remind me how far I’ve come since I wrote this.

Crossed fingers!

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It can be hard dealing with pigheaded people. But someone stubbornly set on an opinion is still better than someone who’s wishy-washy. You have to stand for something and figure out what you’re for and what you’re against.

Sometimes what angers you is a good clue about what makes you feel alive. And I figured out that it riles me up when people make excuses for poor use of language in the public sphere.

Use all the bad grammar you want on your blog or at home, but I have no patience for people justifying it on government websites. Have some standards for pity’s sake, Malaysia.

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It’s my first day sub-editing for The Malaysian Insider. The only real change is that instead of working in pyjamas from 8am to 6pm, I’m working (still in pyjamas) from 7am to 4pm or 4pm to 12am.

I wrote this blogpost last night but scheduled it for 9am today SO NO I R NOT SLACKING AND BLOGGING AT WORK REALLY REALLY.

Though am slightly sad Goreng.my didn’t work out the way we envisioned it, but I learned a lot about managing a “proper” website. Lesson No.1: to make a lot of money with a site, you actually have to put in a lot of money and have sponsors lined up before even launching.

Am looking forward to subbing for TMI as the experience will be quite different from, say, my last stint subbing at Malaysiakini. Not going to talk badly about my previous employers as that is not classy. What I like about my current employers is that I can work from home, I don’t need to come into the office except for the odd meeting or to prove that it is me subbing and not my cat, Wally.

That means: being able to play loud music and dance like a crazy hyena in-between uploading stories. The blog will probably be continually updated about life as a sub-editor, tricky style guides and how to resist the temptation to illustrate political stories with random pictures of kittens.

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(This was published as a Facebook note Friday, 25 December 2009 at 21:26)

So, I lost my purse last night.

Yes, I very clever hor. The good news is I got it back. The unbelievable news is how I got it back.

Just an hour after I’d dropped it, some guy finds it and calls Maybank. Maybank can’t get my phone, they tell the fella to just leave my purse at the nearest police station.

But no. Instead, he rifles through my cards and discovers my workplace. He then sends an email to my colleagues who then call me.

Three hours ago, I got my purse back. He showed up at a cafe near his lodgings. MH, as I’ll call him, is a foreigner of South Asian descent. I offer to give him a reward and he waves it away, appalled. “No, no, I didn’t return it to get a reward!” Then he hastily walks off.

Half an hour later, he SMSes me, tells me that he had to rush off because he was running late.

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I have a difficult relationship with my mother. Yes, I love her but it is a love fraught with tension and the baggage of years.

Being her eldest daughter meant being the embodiment of all she hoped and feared.

She made sure I was never burdened with chores and that I had all the time I needed to study or revise. But when I was out too late and didn’t call home, she would tell my sisters that I was likely getting myself knocked up.

Her Jekyll and Hyde nature made it difficult growing up.

A beautiful woman who could charm government officials and cabbies with her wit and humour, but I heard every Malay swearword I know from her mouth.

She was damaged, I realise now, and more than likely bipolar. Most of it came from her father abandoning her and her mother, leaving mother in the care of her grandmother. My own grandmother from what I hear paid more attention to her other daughters with her new husband, leaving my mother the sole child of her separated parents.

When my father left her after nearly 20 years, she was a crying mess. But I wasn’t there to see my mother falling apart as I was away in university. A university I didn’t even want to attend but I did because my mother insisted it was the best place for me.

Ten years later, and my mother is a noted poet back home. A short story just won a major prize in a local literature competition. She’s published with the DBP and has established quite a name for herself in the Sabah literature scene. The chief minister even presented her with an Outstanding Woman award years back, which I only found out about through Google.

What makes me sad is that it is obvious now how talented she is but why didn’t she make the most of her talent when she was with my father?The truth is my father was everything to her. She gave up her ambitions to be a stay-at-home mom because my father demanded it of her. She had so much resentment over that and it poisoned their marriage but when you were made for something, and denied it too long, it hurts you.

I guess that’s why I’m afraid of marriage. Weary of commitment. Too prone to just running away screaming from being tied down or on the flipside always running right into the arms of men who will treat me badly/leave/offer me nothing lasting.

Though I often call myself my father’s daughter, I am also my mother’s. I have her sentimentality, her depth of emotion, her chattiness and intuitiveness. But like her, I am plagued with bouts of paranoia, self-doubt and yes, on occasion I swear like a sailor.

I used to be afraid of becoming my mother. But now I realise she has weathered so much. Loved so much and lost so much. But she has never given any less than everything when it came to her heart.

She is both the good and bad parts of me.

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“So you begin the process of spiritual healing by listening to your unconscious.
Examine your dreams.
Explore your pain and anger.
Face up to the terror of your inner loneliness.
Find strength in your weakness.
Overcome your fear of losing your identity by giving it up willingly.
With devotion and discipline, you will discover the ability to give up your pride, forgive those who have hurt you, and give of yourself in pure love.
And then you will be on the path of life and healing.”